The Alphabet of Niteschach
by WalterKovacsisDead
Summary: Twenty-six drabbles, one for each letter of the English alphabet, all centering around the Niteschach pairing.


**Fandom:** Watchmen

**Title: **The Alphabet of Niteschach

**Characters/Pairings:** Dan/Rorschach, every last one.

**Summary: **Exactly what the title says it is. One drabble for every letter of the alphabet.

**Ratings/Warnings: **Mostly PG, some PG 13 and a handful of R-rated for spice.

**Notes: **Some of these are approaching seriousness. A few (**W** for sure) are just plain silliness. **Ficlet 'E' **takes place in the Zombie!verse again. **Ficlets****'H' **and **'T' **are intended to be in Steals_Thyme's 'Poor Hand' verse (though you might not notice). **Ficlet 'U'** is very dark.

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**A** is for **Acquiesce**

Rorschach is a very stubborn, willful man. He doesn't like being told what to do, or that he's wrong, or that his theories are in need of backing. He recognizes this trait about himself and, lacking the desire to change who he is, embraces it. It's not so much that he goes out of his way to do the opposite of what is dictated, but more that he will always find his own ways, his own means, to get a job done. Self-sufficiency is important to him, and so is independence.

And so, Dan is very nearly flattered by the fact that, more often than not, Rorschach does what _he_ asks him to, without all the rigmarole and grouching. Maybe it's trust built up from partnership and maybe it's just friendship, or maybe- and he'll never say this out loud, _never_- it's one of the tiny concessions Rorschach is willing to make for him, because he's _Daniel_.

**B** is for **Bare**

It has nothing to do with location or time or situation. It's not about the partnership or the bickering or the sex. It is not even about _Daniel_ and _Rorschach_.

It's about the darkness and the way it eats into a person, stripping away the defenses built up in the light with unwavering, inescapable determination. It's about the way blood never really washes out of anything. It's about the way hope seems to leech out of the world with each passing night.

It's about two bodies that need physical reminders of their wholeness. It's about two hearts yearning for a reason.

It's about having one person who can be trusted enough that everything else can be set to the side for just a few hours. It's about having enough faith in the other person that all the armor can fearlessly be cast off.

It's about being able to lose the masks and gloves and names, to shed all the layers and peel each other down to the core, to know that there is at least one other good person in the world; to strip and be stripped and stand before one another completely bare, unafraid of judgment or injury.

**C** is for **Connect**

Daniel is not sure how he feels about being so close to Rorschach. There is any number of reasons he could give why this is a bad idea- absolutely terrible- and a thousand ways he can imagine it ending that are violent and painful. Sometimes he thinks he should say something, but he always thinks far enough to envision Rorschach- the set of the shoulders, curled defensively, the cant of the head, twisting just slightly away- and he knows that he can never hurt his partner that way.

And it's not all bad. There's something sort of… _off_ and _worthwhile… _about the having someone always at his back, knowing that they'll look out for him and at the same time is dependent on him. And there's something kind of nice about the way Daniel already knows Rorschach's wants and likes and limitations, like this was supposed to happen all along.

And that sort of… not tenderness, because Rorschach is not a soft person, he's contrary and irritable and bites without barking in warning… but a sort of fondness that makes the edges of his frown dissolve, makes Daniel's world just a little shuttered. Something sweet between them that makes up the moments where Rorschach comes up to him before patrol and the first thing he does is tuck his fingers into Dan's hair, pulls him down, and _connects_.

**D** is for **Dare**

The first kiss is like an accident. Just the soft brush of lips, brief and sweet and terrifying. His heart stutters in his chest like a bird looking for an escape, and he had pushed Daniel away, muttering apologies and excuses, and stupid stupid—never should have let it happen.

The second kiss he takes as a dare. Daniel leans down over him, so careful and so patient and so unbearably _good_, and he deserves to have _something_ for that. So he wills himself to remain still, opening his mouth with a shuddering gasp when his friend runs his tongue along the seam of his lips. Daniel knows it is not an invitation; his tongue invades Walter's mouth for just a moment before disappearing.

It feels nice, sending a ribbon of heat down his spine and into his stomach, making him moan softly. He feels as if he might vomit. But Daniel's hand is hot on his face even as he pulls back, smiling gently with something like concern. "That wasn't so bad, right," he asks, and the concern sparking in his eyes is like another dare, _dare you to make this better_.

He doesn't say anything, just arches up onto the balls of his feet, looping his arms around Daniel's shoulders and forcing their lips together. It's hard and abrupt and a little sloppy, but Daniel laughs and holds him and that's okay.

**E** is for **Ebb**

He stays still until the sight of Rorschach's chest, still and unmoving, becomes unbearable.

Daniel knows what fear tastes like. He's washed his mouth out enough with it to gather permanent implants of sour, stale aftertaste in the crevices of his gums. There isn't enough sugar in the world to numb it; not enough water to rinse it away. He feels it now, still pressing his hands to that pale, cool skin like it's going to come to life any second now, just another moment, as the sun starts to rise from the east.

He swears he's been here before, blank-eyed and tired and at a loss for what to do next. But he can't remember, and won't. Rorschach is painted white and black and red in the sheets, maybe iridescent because of the growing sunlight, maybe because he's coming back in just another minute. Because he has to-- Dan needs him to, is banking everything on it, wants the stupid bastard to grumble about priorities and justice, to be judgment and reason, to drag him out on patrol and insist they're the best medicine for their sick city.

Dan _needs _Rorschach to come back to him, can't let this _infection _separate them. He needs to do something more than change the bandages and the sheets. But he's just sitting here on the edge of this bed in the dim early light, and Rorschach is white and still and not breathing. He wasn't breathing when Daniel came in (five minutes or five hours ago) and before that his breaths were shallow and slow. The fever is broken- and _how_, what a fucking joke- and there is no color to Rorschach at all. Even the freckles disappear in this light, leaving him ashen and corpse-pale.

Something about the still and washed out form is magnetic, and he reaches out slowly, unsure even now, to brush his fingers over Rorschach's arm. The skin is so cold, and it's wrong, and the sensation that rips across his chest is something like tearing, something like shattering. His hand wanders up, pressing with something like urgency as he seeks any hint of warmth or motion or _life. _And it's not until his hand is pressed flat against Rorschach's chest, his fingers splayed across unresponsive flesh, that he recognizes that tearing, shattering sensation as despair.

It feels like everything is leeched out of him and into the vacuum laying on the bed; all the hope and light and heat in him, sinking out into Rorschach—and he'll give it willingly if the chest under his hand will just rise again. A sound splits the room like desolation incarnate, and suddenly he's curled over the prone form of his partner, forehead against the back of his own hand, whispering harsh pleas. The cynical pessimist that lives in the back of his head asks what the point is, but he ignores it. "Anything," he swears, "anything just don't _do this_."

There is a stirring sometime later, not in direct response to his words but close enough. Some dull, long awaited pulse, the heavy double beat of a heart slowed by disease. Terrified that he's imagining it, Dan sits up, but keeps his hand firm where it is. Some seconds afterward, the long intake of breath… a full minute of stillness… and another heartbeat. The exhale doesn't come for a long time, but the heartbeat under his hands is regular, almost twice a minute. Terrifyingly slow, but _there_.

Pulling back, Dan exhales a shaky sigh, wiping his hands down his face and feeling hope ebb slowly back into the cracks of his petrified heart.

**F** is for **Fortune**

After the meal, Daniel fingers the cellophane-clad cookies idly, before handing one over to Rorschach.

"Kind of taste like manila folders," he admits with a crooked smile. "But they're kind of fun."

The cookie fractures in his grip and he extracts the slip of paper before popping one half into his mouth, not yet looking at the words, just watching Rorschach pry his treat out of the packet with needless care. Watches him slip it halfway into his mouth, biting down and only then pulling the slip free from between his teeth. It's a little crumpled and a little slobbery, and the action is uncouth and gross and perfectly suited to his partner. His partner scans the paper, the mask creasing as his brows knit together, before he makes a noise and folds it away in his fist, chewing loudly.

"C'mon," Dan says, kind of joking and kind of not. He swallows half of the cookie and puts his head to the side, unconsciously mocking the gesture of inquiry so natural in his partner. "You have to share, that's the fun part."

Rorschach just angles his head at him, staring through the latex that is still rolled up over the bridge of his nose. His mouth remains a perfect scar of vague disapproval, waiting, and Daniel has time to think that his partner can be _so_ strange, before the other man deigns to speak. "Opened yours first. After you."

Shaking his head, Dan holds up his fortune and reads aloud, "Silent wishes earn no rewards" He perks a brow, lips quirking toward a smile. The vagueness of fortunes amuse him, and he can't help but exhale a little laugh at this one- how perfectly apt, but what is he supposed to do? This relationship is entirely on Rorschach's terms, he knows, and he's learned better than to push things. "Okay, fair's fair, buddy. Your turn."

Once again Rorschach stares at him, a long and silent look. His fingers clench tightly around the paper before dropping it to the tabletop, smoothing it out and staring down at it. "Acceptance awaits action toward your desires."

If it means anything to him, he gives nothing away. Dan only chuckles, standing up to start clearing away the take out boxes. "Well, there you go. We're both repressed and don't know how to ask for what we want," he says, trying to make the silence lighter.

The motion is almost frightening, too quick to follow. Suddenly his wrist is caught, halfway between himself and the empty rice container, and Rorschach is on his feet, very close. The grip on his arm is firm, pulling him close as the smaller man pushes up on the balls of his feet, pressing their lips together with a typical lack of finesse. Their mouths work against each other, Rorschach parting his lips and tasting like sweet and sour sauce and bland cookie, and it shouldn't be so good except it _is_.

"What…" he tries to ask as his partner is dragging him toward the stairs. He's cut off mid-thought, pushed against the wall at the foot of the stairs and silenced by lips hard on his.

"Action," is all Rorschach says, and Daniel asks no more, only laughs, chasing the other man up the stairs.

**G** is for **Grab**

Daniel has become an expert in weird noises, no longer impressed by how Rorschach can grunt in fifty-seven different tones of disgust or eighteen shades of approval. He knows each syllabic nuance, is intimately familiar with them all.

There is one that he never gets tired of hearing. It's the rarest noise, probably a dangerous sound, but Daniel can't help himself.

There's just something about the scandalized growl he gets when his hand slips down from Rorschach's shoulder, over the planes of his back, to grab and squeeze lightly at his ass.

**H** is for **Hickey**

Rorschach is all clinging hands and sharp, harsh breaths, teeth that nip and bite and lips that press apologies to abused flesh. It's partially inexperience and partially a desire to make this less wonderful than it is.

In the morning, Rorschach is usually gone, sometimes leaving a note and sometimes not, leaving Daniel to fumble with the faulty hot-plate for coffee and check in the tiny mirror for the bruises he knows will have blossomed. They're never quite where he expects them, always in some convenient and easy to hide location on his collar bone or hidden by the curl of his hair under his ear.

Perhaps they're marks that the other man hopes will convince Daniel that this is wrong, but Dan finds himself running his fingers over them as he's walking home, knowing no one can see them and kind of wishing they could. They're like badges, silent testaments that this is real, and no one would know who had _made _the marks, but Daniel would and it would be kind of nice, glancing in the mirror at home to brush his teeth and seeing that mark without having to seek it out.

**I** is for **Illuminate**

The lights are blown and the warehouse is tiny, cramped, and dark – Nite Owl thinks the last punk fled for the stairs when the lamp shattered. Something is wrong with the night vision- everything is dim, blurred, no matter how he tries to tweak it.

His cape snaps behind him as he looks around, pacing a small circle amid the knocked out bodies on the filthy cement, looking for any sign of motion that will help him locate this last enemy.

Very suddenly, something drops in front of him, a dark blur the crumbles on the ground with a crash and weak groan. Heart slamming against his ribs, he tries to drop back a step, only to trip over another fallen body, landing in an inelegant heap. The jarring motion sends a flash of static fuzz over his vision, whatever short in the goggles reacting to the movement. It's too much like being blind, as he hears something else fall nearby, the sound of shoes scuffing over the floor, the creak of leather.

Hands grab at his collar, heaving him up to his feet, and his pulse thrums in his ears, too loud and too heavy, and that could be anyone, he can't see at all. His back is against the wall, guided around obstacles he knows are there but can't locate. The ragged breath against his neck is familiar, and he _knows_ it's Rorschach but it could be anyone and he can't _see_ and it's terrifying.

"Getting sloppy, Nite Owl," the other man growls, his voice low and as close to taunting as it ever will be. Daniel's heart slows incrementally; comforted by the sound that terrifies so many.

His hands fumble for Rorschach's wrists, finding them and clinging for a moment. "Holy shit, man, you scared me," he says, surprised by how weak his voice sounds. He lets go when Rorschach steps back, gasping when soft leather brushes his face, then up, groping as blindly as Dan himself had been. Rorschach can't see either, he realizes, feeling the pressure of hands on his goggles and wondering why he would have thought otherwise.

Fingers brush against the sides of his goggles, pressing inward until suddenly there is another flash of static across the dark, followed by a blurred but recognizable mask. Daniel breathes a sigh of relief, impressed by how calm the other man can be in the darkest of situations. "Thanks," he mutters, and Rorschach lingers for a moment before pulling away, hands fumbling across a shoulder to take a fistful of his cape.

"Stupid, relying on gadgets," he grumbles, giving Dan's shoulder a little shove to set him moving.

**J** is for **Jerk**

"He was totally my guy," Daniel grouches, but it's playful in an easy way as he hooks the cuffs to a nearby pole. "I would have gotten him."

Rorschach watches him from a few feet away, giving a grunt of negation. "Would have gotten away."

Dan looks up at him as the cuffs click home, standing back up and putting a hand on his hip. "Dude, you can't poach my guy and then imply I'm inept on top of it."

The other man just shrugs turning to fall into step with Dan. They're a half block away before he says, "Getting slow in old age," and Dan knows the other man well enough now to recognize that that's _humor_ softening his growl, and the sound of it warms him, makes him laugh even as he reaches out to shove at the other's shoulder.

"Jerk," he says, when Rorschach hauls back and punches him in the arm, hard but too ill-placed to be anything but rough-housing.

**K** is for **Keys**

The doorjamb has become so scarred from being kicked in that the lock can't really even catch any more. Daniel stares at it for a long time, before giving in with a sigh. He'll replace it. He'll do it. He'll get a new jamb fitted, replace the lock – god knows it won't be good enough for his paranoid partner, but he'll do it.

And this time, he's giving Rorschach a goddamn key. He doesn't know what good it'll do, but maybe – _maybe _– it'll save him a fourth door.

**L** is for **Look**

The mask is off, and Daniel isn't staring, isn't even _looking_. He is, in fact, quite pointedly studying the cracking in the basement floor, following a deep one to an old oil stain and admiring the contrast of pale to dark and wondering why things have to be complicated when they're at heart so simple.

And Rorschach is standing in front of him, the agitation and anger washing off him in waves to crash against the break of Dan's passivity and quiet. "_Look at me_," he says, and it's not a whine or a plea, but it's unbearably close.

His eyes rove slowly upwards, and it is not to be obstinate or contrary but only to be sure that he is doing exactly what has been asked. He is _looking_ at his partner, and not just at any one thing, but all of him. Taking in all of his compact frame, currently too tense and all but trembling. Observing the way Rorschach's shirt is rumpled and one button has popped off- probably over in the corner to their right, and he has to quirk a smile at that- and how he's remembered to zip his pants up but not to do anything to cover his freckle-splattered chest. His eyes rove over his shoulders, his bare throat, following a trail of freckles that go under cover in a field of stubble. Over thin lips, chapped and sweet and still a little swollen from kisses. Over the many-times broken nose, imperfect and yet part of something held very dear. Skipping the eyes, saving them for last, to skim over the furrowed brow, to get lost in the untamed and unkempt wilderness of ginger hair. Finally to lock on those eyes, so blue and so fierce and so, so unsure.

He looks, and yes; the man in front of him is not beautiful. He is, by conventional definition, exceptionally ugly. The harsh fluorescent lights do nothing to soften his features, making him look waxen and pale and dangerous.

But Daniel has seen this face before, in the shadows and in the gold of morning light, and he doesn't care.

**M** is for **Meaning**

The point is that it has no meaning, and Dan knows that, but sometimes when Rorschach is curled over him, pulling back from a kiss or arching away as he sinks inside, Dan finds his mind absently following the ever shifting pattern of the mask, mapping the ink. Now a bird, now two faces bowed together, now a glare. Ever shifting, consuming itself and regurgitating something new and wonderful.

He wants to see the face under the mask when they're like this, and when they lie together afterwards. There is no point in guessing what the mask means because it is supposed to mean nothing. No matter what suggestive imagery might cross his mind as it alters and blurs, it does nothing to help solve the mystery of the man lying beside him.

He wants to see the other man's face as he is undone by pleasure and unwound in sleep, to study it and know its nuances as he knows the body language and verbal tics. He wants a visage that shifts with some kind of purpose, not random as heat chases through the flesh beneath. He wants a face he can understand, not a face that flouts comprehension.

**N** is for **No**

Most of the time, what Rorschach says is what Rorschach means. He's not subtle with the important things, not delicate or allusive about things he deems worth discussing.

And usually, when he says _no_, it means exactly that. It might be accompanied by any one of his thousand noises, making the meaning twist just slightly, from _please stop touching me, thanks_ to _never again and if you suggest it I'll hurt you_. But _no_ is mostly _no_, dressed up however the situation might demand.

It has to be 'usually' and 'mostly' though, because there are a few times – just a handful, not very many at all – when Rorschach says _no_ in the softest voice, with the least gravel in his growl. He turns the word up at the end, not quite enough to make it a question, and looks away from Daniel.

That is the only way Dan has _ever_ heard that syllable said that has made him shiver. It's _no_, but it's really _convince me_, and the difference is huge and yawning. The word is _no_ but it's the softest challenge, and one Daniel enjoys taking on.

**O** is for **Options**

Rorschach knows Daniel has options; that he has the funds and the personality to do whatever he really wants to with his life. It's just knowledge, not anything he envies or dwells on.

It strikes him, every now and then, that Daniel doesn't have to be here, the partner at his back on patrol, the menacing bulk behind him as he's interrogating an informant, the pilot of a ridiculous and indulgent (but useful) machine that can sweep them across the city in minutes. Daniel could have comfortably given up with the rest of them after Keene's Act was passed.

Rorschach doesn't envy him having options, because it means constantly picking sides, weighing values. He does, however, feel cutting warmth in the hollows of his heart every time the other man falls in step with him for another night. He knows Daniel had the option of giving up and moving on, and that for some reason, he had chosen not to.

A childish and hedonistic part of him insists the impossible, that Daniel chose because of him, and the thought makes him curl his lip and shudder.

**P** is for **Paregoric **

Despite all his silence and unfailing stillness, Daniel knows that all the stitching, all the set bones, all the reduced dislocations, hurt. Rorschach doesn't make a sound, save sometimes for the slow hiss of breath through his teeth, during Daniel's treatment of his wounds.

For a long time it bothered Dan, that the other man would take nothing to give him respite from the pain. It was clear he felt the pain; from the way his fingers would hook into the flesh of Dan's forearm and cling, the way his lip would come out bloody from between his teeth when everything was done. He could never make much of a deal out of it, because Rorschach took to leaving if he pressed the issue of painkillers. Maybe it was selfish, but Dan preferred having the smaller man sitting near him, sometimes sagging against him in a wordless request for contact.

"I want…" he says one night, Rorschach's head heavy on his shoulder, their fingers tangled together between them.

"No," the other cuts him off without moving. His breath is still ragged and he sounds drowsy, which means he's really beyond exhausted and fighting it. The fact that they can only touch like this while he's in such agony strikes Dan suddenly and painfully, and he shifts uncomfortably, closer to the tense form huddled against him.

Licking his lips, he leans to rest his temple against the crown of the other man's head. "I don't like seeing you in pain," he mutters.

Rorschach has been relaxing into him in grudging increments, and all at once he slackens, molding against the other man with a nose that is half pain and half comfort, lost in a muddling between the two that seems to be satisfaction for him. "Fine like this," he mumbles, and refuses to say any more on the subject.

**Q** is for **Question**

The other man presses his lips tightly together, his mouth becoming little more than a scar across the lower half of his face. The furrow in his brow deepens and his eyes narrow and Dan knows he thinks he's avoiding the question. He's not. "Answer, Daniel."

A sigh, and Dan leans back against the wall, his smile disappearing. Why does everything simple have to be made complicated? Two words should not inspire this reaction. And it felt so right, with Rorschach pressed against him, his hands fumbling to open his stubborn shirt and his mouth working on Rorschach's neck. Two words, completely honest and uncensored, breathed against hot flesh, and suddenly the body in his arms was stiff and unresponsive. Two words, and suddenly Rorschach was shoving back, away.

"I don't know, man." He says, and he's still being honest. He has no idea what Rorschach wants to hear- would have thought he'd have _wanted_ to hear what had already been said.

Rorschach is trip-wire tense, staring into Daniel's eyes with such concentration it feels like an effort at telepathy. Like if he can stare hard enough he'll scour out the truth. "Know I'm ugly, Daniel. Lacking looks, excuse is usually _personality_." The last word is exhaled with venom, implying that it is not a viable answer either. The tone reveals a level of self-loathing previously undiscovered.

All of this for two little words that Dan doesn't know how to defend. Confessions of love never seemed so stupid; he should have watched his mouth… but the phrase has been on his lips for months, pulling at his heart for even longer. It deserves to be said, and Rorschach deserves to believe it.

He moves without thinking, taking two small steps forward and closing the distance between them. His hand is gentle on the other man's face, holding him in place when he leans down and kisses him soundly. It's not gentle or chaste, not forceful or lusty; it's the kind of kiss that makes a point, almost a sort of punctuation. "I love you," he repeats, and maybe the pronoun will help it sink in. "There's nothing to question."

**R** is for **Ravish**

It's not like anything Daniel's ever done, just as pleasurable (sometimes so much more) but with a spark of danger and passion that's never existed in his life before. Nothing is this risky, this assuredly life-threatening, and that includes all the years of raids and knife fights and desperate out-numbered-and-backed-against-the-wall situations. He's never felt so helpless or so completely wanted in his life, and there is something bizarre about how well those two feelings go together.

Sometimes it's not like this, either. Sometimes the power is more evenly balanced; sometimes he's the one taking charge and exerting control. Sometimes they can't do more than kiss without Rorschach getting spooked, seizing up and pushing away. He doesn't know what does it… but it helps, he's noticed, to let Rorschach do as he wants, and if what he wants is complete control, Dan trusts him enough to give him that.

A lot of times, Rorschach is violent. Not in a kinky, bites-and-kisses fetish way. Violent in a fast, need-but-mustn't have way, all sharp motions and growling breath and hard, fast, finish-and-flee.

Very rarely is it like this, not quite slow, but not so urgent either. Rorschach stretched across him, shushing him when he tries to say anything, hands exploring and lips caressing in very distracting ways. Like this, every subtle shift of muscle is to bring them closer, every twitch entangles them further. Rorschach's teeth graze his throat, not perfunctory or punishing but almost teasing, and his whole body crawls with the knowledge. He feels hot and wanted and consumed, and the word that springs to his is _ravished_, _you're being ravished_, and then Rorschach moves just so and his brain stops making words.

**S** is for **Sadistic**

The smaller body thrashes against the sheets, face scrunched in frustration and annoyance as Daniel bends over him, insistent.

"Just _take it_," he growls, voice as rough and forceful as Rorschach's usually is. The other man doesn't say a word, just presses his lips together and twists weakly away. Daniel huffs a sigh and tries to switch tactics, softening his voice and putting his head to the side. "C'mon, buddy, you _need _this."

Rorschach shakes his head silently, keeping his mouth shut and arching his back, like he might sink into the mattress and away. It's a stalemate, neither willing or able to move, and it goes on and on – until the smaller man it caught by surprise, a cough bursting out of him with enough force that he can't keep his mouth closed completely.

Dan will feel bad later, but in the moment he seizes the opportunity, forcing the spoon deftly between his partner's teeth and tipping the liquid down in one smooth motion, so it's either swallow or choke. The other man sputters and struggles, but in the end more of the violently green liquid goes down than is forced out.

Despite the glare – it lacks the venom to make it much more than sulky – Dan smiles as he sits back.

"Poison," Rorschach growls, before collapsing into another fit of coughing, heavy and thick with whatever sickness has nested in his chest. And Dan only screws the cap tighter on the bottle, nodding vacantly.

"Yup. I just fought you for half an hour to make you swallow poison." He paws at his face, smearing cough syrup off his cheek. "Because you're not sick from wandering the streets in nothing warmer than a soaking wet coat, and I am an evil, evil person who likes watching you suffer, which is why I forced you to take the guest bed in the first place. So I have a prime view."

Setting the cough syrup on the bed side table, Dan moves from the edge of the bed to the only chair in the room, folding his hands on his lap and meeting Rorschach's gaze evenly. He tries not to look surprised when the other man looks away, red pooling in his cheeks. "Didn't say that," he grumbles, and Dan knows, but it's like an apology and as close to thanks as he's going to get for taking care of his sick partner.

Dan doesn't say anything at all, just picks up his book and flips it open, watching Rorschach settle back into the bed, coughing weakly every once and a while. He waits until the other man has closed his eyes to say, "You're taking another dose in an hour."

The other man stays quiet for a moment, pressing his lips tightly together in frowning disapproval before grunting one last word.

"Sadist."

**T** is for **Twist**

Sometimes, when he's being particularly stupid or has been hit particularly hard, Dan just watches his partner move. It would be better if he could do this discretely while he was taking care of himself, but when he tries (and he calls this being stupid) he almost always freezes up, watching the easy stretch and flex of the lean, muscular body he knows lurks under all those layers. Freezing up is a bad thing, and it almost always leads to excuse number two- getting hit. _Hard._

And he's floored this time, fist hitting his face and sending him reeling back into the wall, cracking the back of his head there and then his temple as he sinks to the ground. He manages to get up on his knees when the boot swings into his chest, landing him on his ass. He can see the punks turned toward him, moving closer in measured movements all too like scavengers descending on a corpse, and he has time to think _this is going to hurt_ before Rorschach is there, twisting fluidly in and out of the rush of bodies. He's all easy athleticism and defensive fury, snarling and ignoring any hits they manage to land on him.

Dan knows now that Walter is a tailor; he's seen his work and understands the formation of calluses on his finger tips better. But watching him like this, turning a fall into an easy hand-spring, he can't help imaging him as a performer, a gymnast in some stretchy, clinging suit, all strength and self-assurance and no pain but for the stretch of muscles and

"Hurt?"

The word snaps him out of reverie, and Dan opens eyes he didn't realize he had closed, staring into the warping face of concern. He smiles and hooks an arm around Rorschach's shoulder and kisses him through the mask, muttering something indecipherable about 'acrobats' and 'trapeze', making the smaller man wonder dimly just how hard he'd been hit.

**U** is for **Unclean**

Daniel's shout of negation still rings in his ears, caught like a ravaging creature in his head, tearing through his chest in pain he didn't know he had room to feel. Some dim part of him knows Daniel never should have been there to see what they had found together; never should have taken the case with him. He's taken it badly himself, but Daniel has taken it worse – this unforgivable failure on both their parts, this knowledge that they are still fallible, still capable of terrible mistakes.

He was surprised when it was Daniel who leapt on the child-murdering piece of scum, beating him first with fists and finally hauling him bodily into a wall. More surprised by the noise he was making while he did it (and he had been so close, hitting just as hard, just as angry and desperate). It was an animal noise, a shuddering growl that rose and fell with rage and misery, and Rorschach recognized it because it so often left his own lips.

What he had most wanted to do was kill the man, and he could tell by that noise that Daniel wanted it too. But he wouldn't allow it; acknowledged it was what the man deserved but said they didn't deserve to do it, didn't have the right to become executioners on top of all the other liberties they took with the judicial system. And his voice had been so stern and unforgiving that Rorschach had let him take the matches, let him throw them in Grice's face with another wordless growl.

Daniel is strong and good and Rorschach believes him when he says Grice will get worse in prison than they could dish out in one evening. So it feels wrong that he's bent over the basement sink, back in the Owl Cave, weeping and broken and clawing at his hands. The soap is forgotten in the basin and Daniel's hands are red and raw under the steaming water, trembling as he digs one set of nails into the back of the other and scrapes.

He was wearing gloves the whole time; his bare hands cannot have been contaminated, but Rorschach knows better. He knows the sinking feeling of bone-deep filth, knows that blood sinks through leather and cotton and skin and bone, seeping into the soul and staining you forever.

But it does him injury to hear that noise, high and keening like a dying bird, echoing in the cavernous room, and as much as he wants to disappear and give Daniel his privacy, some part of him knows that would be the worst possible thing. Daniel is strong and good, but he's also so badly hurt now that those things mean nothing to him. He needs stitching to hold him together or he'll fall apart like a badly pinned gown going down the runway.

So Rorschach steps quietly behind him, catching his arms at the wrist and holding them still, prying them apart and away from the scalding water. Daniel struggles at first and then sinks back against him, babbling about being wrong and too late and pain and dirty filthy stupid unclean unclean unclean.

He doesn't let go, lets the other man talk until the words fail and falter into hiccups and sighs. When he finally speaks, the words are maybe not the right ones, not the most comforting, but they make Daniel still and calm. "Never washes away, Daniel," he says softly, "Only builds up, second skins to make us stronger."

**V** is for **Vacation**

They never leave the city because the city needs them. Nights off are rare and usually mean one or both of them are injured or for some reason otherwise occupied. 'Nights off' also usually entail recon and foot work and all the little things that fit together to make a bust.

"We should go somewhere," Dan mutters, his voice obscured by Walter's shoulder. He grins lazily as the other man shifts slightly, knowing he wants to get out of bed and start the day, and also knowing that he wants to indulge in this moment a little longer. "Somewhere nice and quiet."

"Quiet here," Walter says, crisp and awake despite the early hour and his broken wrist.

Dan laughs, tightening his grip on the other man's waist. "Maybe I want to go somewhere new, explore something. Distract myself."

Fluidly, Walter has rolled over in his arms, facing him. His homely face is brightened by those intense eyes, meeting Dan's with no hesitation as he presses a silent kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Go somewhere new every night, Daniel," he says. "Distracted enough, don't you think?"

**W** is for **Wedding**

The question comes with dry laughter, slurred by the cigar hanging out of the Comedian's mouth. It makes Dan freeze in his seat, head turning slowly to regard Rorschach, who is staring sternly at the older man, rigid with what Dan knows can only be contained violence.

"What?" He growls, leather creaking as his fingers fold into fists on the table top. Adrian coughs and starts to say something, likely an attempt at changing the subject before the situation can escalate. But the slight turn of Blake's head toward him shuts him up, and the older man just grins wider.

"I said," he enunciates, plucking the cigar from between his teeth to remove any chance of being misheard, "_When's the wedding_? Don't wanna be late finding a gift fer you."

There's a strangled sound from Laurie's side of the room, too close for a laugh before it's turned into a disapproving grunt. Dan is on his feet, just holding his breath, not daring to move his hand from the table top and further incriminate them by touching the other man. He doesn't move toward the Comedian, but he's waiting for Rorschach to uncoil, to spring at the older man in a flurry of fists and wild kicks and denial; waiting for the breaking of furniture and bones and maybe of this tenuous alliance.

He's prepared to reach in to the fray and drag his partner away, to block his hits and brush away his insults and do what it takes to get them out of their without anyone hurt more than is unavoidable.

He's not prepared for a hand sliding over his, a noise like defiance slipping into the growl emanating from Rorschach's throat. "Gay marriage is illegal," is all the smaller man says, before leaning back into his chair, seeming to ignore the sound of the Comedian's laughter as it cracks across the room.

It says something about what they've done for each other that he's the one to lurch to his feet and Rorschach is the one to give the glib response and let it wash away… but Daniel is too distracted by the warm feeling crawling around his guts to think too hard about what it might be.

**X** is for **Xerotripsis **

It almost burns, this tension between them. Dan is waiting for it to snap like a rubber band, to explode and sting them both. Fling them apart or force them together – plays out differently in his mind every time he contemplates it.

As it is, each night of patrol is agony, and he's worried he's getting sloppy. The only thing that makes it okay is knowing that Rorschach is just as awkward and distracted, just as jumpy.

The early morning hours spent stitching each other up are almost laughably uncomfortable, hands ending up where they shouldn't and yanked away before any response can rise. Neither of them know what the hell they're doing, any more than they can admit that anything is happening at all. Dan won't make Rorschach any more ill at ease than he already is by pushing things, figuring it's better to see how it plays out on its own. Things usually work out okay.

He'll take what he can get now, each brush of leather-clad hands on unwounded skin burning like dry friction, promising something he knows he can never have.

**Y** is for **Yield**

A lot of this relationship is work for Dan. It's intricate, delicate work, not unlike working on a particularly fragile piece of machinery. And it's just that important to do everything right, to make sure to use the right tools and the right amount of torque and push all the right buttons in all the right orders.

He enjoys the work in the same way he enjoys working on his gadgets. It's frustrating at times, and there are moments when he just throws his hands up and says _enough_. But it's never enough and he always comes back, fiddling and tweaking and making it all just so.

Because he knows that, like anything involving so much work, the end result is going to be something beautiful and precious and unforgettable. And when he reaches that, he can bask in what his work has yielded with no guilt at all.

**Z** is for **Zoetic**

He never meant for this to happen, but it's done now. Love is a line, a rope that has wrapped around him and snared him into something that he cannot survive escaping. But it is also a rod of power running through him, something pulsing and vital and completing.

Maybe it's wrong. Probably it is. All these moments are is indulgence, setting aside duty and propriety to be needy, holding each other back out of selfish need for safety.

But Rorschach cannot lie, not even to himself. These things they do together, sins committed in the sanctuary and cover of darkness; they are _wrong_. They must be. But they feel so good, so beautiful and whole and right in the moment, and the guilt come slower and with less force every time.

They need each other, and these things they do might be wrong, but it holds them together and lets them work all the closer, stronger than they ever could be alone. If he could go back and stop himself from meeting Daniel, maybe that would be better – but he can't do that, and so he has to live with this current stream of events. Part of that is having Daniel at his side, a weakness and strength all at once.


End file.
